Birthday = great. Thanks to everyone; I felt very, very loved. You are all much kinder to me than I deserve.
Kinda funny story about vomit and God's wrath:
So, Guion took me out to dinner last night in Hillsborough. We ended up going to Tupelo's, an excellent Southern restaurant where we went on our very first date in February 2008. For some background, both Guion and I gave up meat and fish for Lent. This has not been as hard as it sounds, particularly for me, but after I looked at the menu, I really, really wanted that bronzed salmon. Guion had a hankering for the catfish. So we talked, rationalized, and decided that, since it was my birthday, and we now operate under the new covenant of grace, it would not necessarily be "wrong" to eat fish for one night. "I feel like God is going to punish me," I said, laughing, as I ordered the salmon. Little did I know how prophetic those words would be...
Fast forward three hours later. After some green tea, we are sitting on the couch and he is reading me a poem about Spanish roosters when I note that my stomach feels funny. It soon moves from funny to very unfunny. I feel downright sick. Guion tells me all I have to do is lie on my left side and all will be well. This, unfortunately, was not the case. About five minutes after trying this, I spring up and run to the bathroom... and proceed to regurgitate my entire meal, and the contents of my stomach, three times.
So romantic! (I can't believe I'm actually sharing all this...) Yes, I know. But, miraculously, it was only a mild case of food poisoning, for I felt better immediately afterwards. And we sat together (albeit he sat rather distantly from my face. I don't blame him) and watched three episodes of "Summer Heights High" before he dropped me off. So it might have been a mild case of food poisoning. Or it might have been the fist of the Almighty God telling me not to break my promises during Lent. Qui sait?
In other news, yesterday the world remembered the man who invented the pencil eraser on March 30, 1858. His name was Hymen Lipman. Which may or may not be the most unfortunate name I've ever heard.
Emily was composing a kvetch about The Carolina Review this afternoon. She read it out loud and then reflected, "This offends me. If I read this in the paper, I would get angry."
Flower count in our room:
- 1 lovely, well-preserved orchid, still hanging on since February
- 1 branch of a fuschia-flowering tree that Emily stuck in my present
- 1 rose in an Izze bottle
- 5 irises in a Guinness glass
- 5 roses in a glass milk bottle
We have amazing boyfriends.
Song of the day: "Hey, Mama Wolf," Devendra Banhart